Tingling
by Suflet
Summary: Hermione returns to Hogwarts for her 7th year and discovers that she and Professor Snape share the same issues after the war.


I am only five years old when I do something that no one ordinary can do.

I am walking towards the playground with my six years old neighbor, carrying a big brown book about animals in my hands.

You see, I tell Jake, the otters are very playful in the water. They even make their own waterslides and play with stones. It's all here, in my book.

While I find it so interesting, he does not care.

When we come across a hurt deer in the forest near our park, he does not care.

Don't touch it. It's probably dead, he says.

But I do. And as soon as my small fingers reach for the animal, I can _feel it._ _Sweet, warm, tingling._ Happiness. It flows from me and engulfs the deer and it springs back to life. And while it regards me with big brown eyes, _like mine_ , and bows its head, I know _I_ did it.

And while I'm delighted, Jake never speaks to me again.

...

The moment I touch my wand for the first time, I can't stop grinning. I know it's mine simply because it feels like me. _Warm, bright, tingling_. It drifts from my chest towards my wand and then back again, settling above my heart. Magic. _My_ _Magic._

I clutch my wand to my chest and laugh and while I can feel my parents giving me strange looks, Mr. Ollivander just smiles. He _understands_.

Just imagine, I tell my parents in a voice full of childlike innocence, what greatness one can achieve with magic!

I think of the deer and how I saved it. With _my magic._

Of course, they say and they kiss my cheeks. But they never understand, even though it makes so much sense to me.

So much sense.

I love magic.

…

But the first time I hate it it's when I'm sprawled on the cold floor, writhing in pain. My lungs feel like exploding, my blood burns in my veins and my head throbs and I am surprised that I can still yell. And for a long time, I do just that.

When the pain stops, it's only for a moment.

You are not cooperating, dirty little Mudblood, she says and her voice is full of malice. And then the pain starts again.

And again.

And I can _feel it_ , that special place above my heart unsettling, covering, hiding. I'm no longer _warm, bright, sweet_. It's no longer _tingling_.

When she carves my arm I barely feel it.

Then she Crucios me again.

…

When I stab the cup with the basilisk fang, I'm not _sweet, bright_ and _tingling_ either. Instead my mind dashes towards the memory I try so hard to forget and I find myself reaching for the safe feeling of hatred- it's there. And it's easy.

So easy.

And while Voldemort's soul lies bare in front of me, it smiles knowingly. You are smart and ambitious, I can hear its voice in my head. How much, I wonder, until you become like me?

The image and his voice follow me around for years.

…

After a while it's over and I am staring at the dead bodies laid on the ground. Fred. Remus. Tonks. Lavender. Oh, Lavender.

I find myself remembering the deer. But I'm no longer _warm, bright_ and _tingling_. I am cold like an untouched stone and covered in darkness and while I try, Lavender doesn't wake up.

Don't be _stupid_ , I think in a voice that resembles very much your voice. Bringing back the dead is impossible. The deer was just hurt.

And while I know that to be true, I am still disappointed. And cold. And I'm not _tingling_ anymore.

Life goes on. I only wish it would for everyone.

…

When I return to Hogwarts for my 7th year, no one seems to be surprised.

They should.

But when I take my usual place at the Gryffindor table, nor am I. Lavender sits next to me and although she says nothing, I know who she is waiting for. But Parvati is not here.

When she looks at me, I shake my head and she disappears, leaving me alone.

 _Alone_. I've felt like that for some time now.

Then I raise my eyes and meet yours across the Hall and I can't help but wonder if you feel the same.

I sigh.

Later, much later, I'm sitting at my usual place in the library, reading. It's just like me to read everything, I think. Therefore I do. And then you come along.

Insufferable know-it-all, you say, and you sound exasperated but resigned at the same time. Your voice is raspy and fairly different, but your eyes are the same. Dark, serious eyes.

Go to bed, Miss Granger, you say. And I do. Except it happens like always and as soon as I'm asleep, I am not. My back is on the cold floor, my head and my lungs hurt and my blood burns. Her black eyes are laughing, killing. It's what she wants to do. I wake up thrashing my bed covers.

I'm nauseous.

I always am in the mornings.

I never eat in the mornings. And I never sleep during the nights.

…

It takes awhile for me to understand that you don't either. I only do when I meet you outside one night and instead of turning around and hiding from you, I step forward and join you on the stairs.

You're taken aback, I noticed. I know you don't like me. You probably have me labeled as something among _Dunderheads that I have to teach_ , _Potters' insufferable friends_ and _Irritating know-it-alls_ , but I find I like them better than _War hero_.

Miss Granger, your grave voice is the only sound in the night, you are aware of the school rules regarding curfew, I presume?

You are not one to mess around with words. Neither am I, therefore:

I am trying to evade sleep, professor.

I wait for the scolding, for the loss of points from Gryffindor. But they never come. Instead, you ask: Nightmares?

I nod.

There are potions that can help you with that, you say.

I nod again. I know. I've had Dreamless Sleep, but I am not allowed anymore. It's highly-

Addictive, you scathingly interrupt. Yes, Miss Granger, as a master in this field I assure you I know the specifics of this potion.

For a few minutes you are silent, thinking. But there is nothing to be done with it, otherwise I believe you won't be here.

I know I am right.

You watch me from the corner of your eye and when I do nothing else but sit and stare at the Black Lake, you relax, which surprises me.

Then so do I.

We say nothing to fill the silence. I hug my knees with my arms as we watch the sunrise, relieved that another night is over. Knowing you're here is encouraging.

When I'm deadly tired, I rise and say goodbye.

Goodbye, Miss Granger, you say without turning your head and it feels like you almost forgot I was there.

…

Next time I see you, I am coming back from Hogsmeade. I took the long way and stopped a few times.

I cried. Break-ups are not supposed to be easy. I know.

You are at the castle entrance, smoking. You say nothing, but hand me a cigarette. I must look a sight if you do that, I realize, but I don't care.

I feel your gaze on me while I light it and smoke it. You're wondering what happened to me now.

We broke up, I say and you just sigh. It's a different sigh than the one you usually give me. And when I meet your eyes, I know why. This one is not exasperated, like I expected. This one is understanding. And drained. It makes me wonder when was the last time you slept.

We don't say anything afterwards. I am tired. I feel empty, and cold and not tingling, but there is peace to be felt in the air. I'm unaware when I start to cry again, silent tears. You hear me, though, and I expect to be berated for it.

I am not. You just sigh again.

When I rise to go to my dormitory, your tentative voice stops me in my tracks.

You can do much better anyway.

There's a thank you on my lips but it never escapes.

…

Next morning you berate me anyway, for not paying attention. _You_ are the only reason why we are not dead.

It's funny how that keeps happening.

Mixing Deadlyius with Essence of Comfrey creates poisonous fumes, and that is third year material, Miss Granger, you say and your glare is as frozen as I feel.

And tired.

And so empty.

I barely care that everyone is staring at me. I see it in your eyes when you realize it. The ice melts away and is replaced by anger, clear and burning.

Get out, you say to the class in a whisper and because it's deadly quiet everyone hears. And everyone does.

The moment they are all out you grab me ruefully by my arms and shake me.

Wake up, you say and your voice is hard as steel.

I've been nothing but up for a very long time, I think. But you _know_ and your eyes soften slightly, followed by a sigh. There are a million things you could say, I know, but none of it would make it better. So you let me go.

And even though I'm not assigned detention, I find myself searching for your presence that night and every night that follows.

…

One night it's snowing.

You look as tired as I feel and your hands shake slightly.

I wonder why.

After a few minutes though, I know.

Mine shake too.

They haven't in a long time and I know it's the weather. You know too, so you rise and extend your hand to me. It's the first time that I'm touching it and it's everything I'm not. Warm. Secure. Powerful. I don't let go for the moment, but you pull me inside and then do.

We're walking together until we reach the 7th floor. And then we are outside again, only this time it's warm.

Our hands don't tremble anymore.

…

On January 9th you're not here and I understand that disappointment is the first thing I've felt in a long time. But it's there- solid, real.

 _Real._

After a while though, I fall asleep. It lasts for only a second, before I realize that the shape moving on the ground is another part of his soul- his dark, twisted soul- and it's thirsty for you. It's going to happen, I know it, and while I try to tell you, I find that no matter what I do, I can't.

And then I see you as I've seen you once before, on the ground in a wrecked house, covered in your own blood.

I wake up filled with panic and I'm _grateful_ that it was only a dream. You're still not here.

But I can't just stay anymore.

So I walk, until I'm stopped in my tracks and I can't help but stare for a long time.

It's the first thestral I see, you know, and it almost breaks my heart.

It regards me with sad eyes, _like mine_ , and we both bow our heads. How unfortunate, I believe, to only be _seen_ by those who have witnessed such terrible things.

And then I think that perhaps I am like that too.

…

Disappointment turns into relief and then relief turns into something else, something I can't define but it's there- always – during the nights.

And so are you.

And while it was easy before to be silent in the dark, to pretend that I am not there, but take comfort in your presence, I find that so is talking to you.

Therefore I do.

It's small, at first. Insignificant, everyday things.

 _I really like chocolate._

 _My parents are both dentists._

 _I am the one who set your robes on fire during that Quidditch match in the first year._

But it grows from here, although I can see you trying not to smile at the last one and pretend to be offended.

 _I have found my parents but I was afraid to return their memories- I didn't think I could._

 _Me and Ron..well we tried but I didn't really know how to explain_ this _to him, so I guess it was a matter of time anyway._

 _It's her, you know. Bellatrix Lestrange. Most of my nightmares are about her. And Voldemort. And you._

 _Me? You ask, surprised. I don't look at you, but I can feel your keen eyes fixed on me._

 _You. I dream about Nagini killing you._

You don't talk, at first, but you listen and it makes me believe that you _care_. And when the first thing you confess comes in a quiet, resigned whisper, I find that I do too.

 _I dream about that as well._

And while I hated the nights before, I don't do it anymore, because of you.

…

My arm hurts today and I know it's been a year. I can almost feel them, her eyes, full of malice and madness, following me around the castle, tormenting me.

So when the night comes and the darkness surrounds me, I take comfort because I know I can no longer be seen.

Later, when we lie outside, I am probing my forearm with my fingers and I feel you watching me. We stand close to each other.

You take my arm in your large hand and I see the unspoken question in your dark, serious eyes.

I hesitate for a moment, before I nod.

You are not the first one who sees it, but you are the first one who does because _I let you_.

I see the anger in your eyes when you find the word branded on my arm. The pillar closest to us explodes and, for a moment, I'm rendered speechless. Not because I'm afraid, no, but because I'm surprised at how this makes me _feel_.

We worked hard to fix the castle, you know, I joke, trying to ignore your fingertips that feel like a caress on my forearm. But it sounds weak coming from my mouth, losing all their meaning when I shiver slightly. And not because I'm cold.

I am not cold.

I am _warm._

 _I am warm_ and I can feel your eyes searching mine. I know your eyes. They are black, so black that in the moments when I'm most tired, I believe it mirrors the darkness inside of me perfectly.

I am sorry, you say and we both know it's not about the pillar. My eyes fall on your covered neck.

So am I.

In a daring move, my hand finds yours and you don't let go for the rest of the night.

…

On the 2nd of May, I don't bother searching for you outside.

I _know_ you won't be there.

Instead I leave the noisy common room like a shadow and go all the way down to the dungeons. Your office. It opens right before I arrive, like you already knew I was coming.

Maybe you did.

You watch with serious eyes as I approach your desk and as soon as I'm seated in the worn, wooden chair I can hear the door closing behind me.

I realize that I've never seen you so unguarded before. So _human_.

You don't wear your robes, so I can see the scar on your neck and it reminds me of my dreams. But I shake my head. That is not real.

This is _real_.

And later, when I selfishly move closer to you in search of that warm feeling again, the first thing I take in is the color of your eyes. Black.

Intense.

Bright _._ Promising.

 _Bright._

They unravel me completely and I impulsively lower my head and kiss your scar. You stiffen, before you sigh and close your eyes. It doesn't hurt you, no, but it's a pain of a different kind.

Muttering something that I don't hear, you open your arms and gather me in them.

And when I fall asleep, I don't wake up until much later to realize that you have, too.

…

I don't see you alone again for almost two months.

You are there when we graduate- so are the rest of the teachers. Harry. Ron. A lot of people that I know and even more that know me.

That's right.

 _War hero._

I am talking to Harry and Ron when you come. It's like I feel you, _dark, secure, powerful_ , so I turn around to look at you.

Congratulations, _Hermione_ , you say in your hoarse voice and then, once again, I fall in your eyes.

 _My name_.

And then you nod:

Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley.

Professor, they acknowledge, somehow uncomfortably.

Thank you, professor, I say and I wonder how would your name sound on my lips. Would it sound cold and detached like I've felt for a long time, or would it be a searing promise, like my name on yours is?

Later, when I find you in the night, I know.

And I feel like crying and laughing at the same time because really, how else one should react when they reach _this_ conclusion?

Your name sounds like _me_.

 _Warm. Sweet. Bright. Severus._

And while you make love to me, while your lips kiss every inch of my body, I _know_ I'm _tingling._

And I can feel that place above my heart exploding when you say my name again and this time it means so much more.

 _Hermione._

You're not surprised when you see my tears, because you _know_ what they mean. But your draw me closer to you until my head lies on your chest and your arm settles above my heart.

My heart.

 _My magic._

And when we fall asleep, it's not her eyes that follow me around anymore.


End file.
